The exclamation had been torn from him by a flash of lightning, even more blinding than the last, that had turned everything white. By its light he thought he’d seen a figure standing below in the alley.

‘Now I’m imagining things as well,’ he muttered. ‘I must stop this.’

But he stayed there, trying to see through the darkness, and at last the lightning came again, flashing on and off, showing him the figure of a young woman, drenched, her hair plastered to her head, water streaming off her. Then the night swallowed her up again.

Frowning, he opened the window and looked out into the alley, half convinced that she was an illusion. But suddenly the moon came out from behind the clouds and he saw her again.

She was perfectly still, gazing up at the window, apparently oblivious to her surroundings.

He leaned out, calling, ‘Ciao!’

She neither moved nor spoke.

‘Ciao!’ he called again. Still in Italian he yelled, ‘Wait, I’m coming down.’

He hated being disturbed but he couldn’t leave her to freeze. In a moment he was heading down the stairs to the side entrance, wrenching open the heavy door.

Pietro had expected her to hurry inside, but she was still standing where he’d left her, so he hauled her forcibly inside, not troubling to be gentle. He would rescue her but he was damned if he was going to get soaked for her.

Holding her suitcase in one hand and her arm in the other, he hurried her up the stairs to his rooms, where she collapsed on the sofa, her eyes closing as she lost consciousness.

‘Mio dio!’ he muttered again, seeing the dilemma he was in.

He must get her into dry clothes fast, but the thought of undressing her while she was unconscious appalled him. Yet he couldn’t let her get pneumonia. His housekeeper was away for the night. What he had to do must be done alone.